Autumn
by Jericho Pryce
Summary: OneShot. One of the Titans observes an Autumn afternoon.


**Teen Titans**

**Autumn**

**By Jericho Pryce**

He sat there on the park bench admiring the day; he watched the city's denizens stroll through the park; he saw the geese plodding around and about the pond, occasionally stopping to nab a piece or two of bread from a passerby; he admired the colors of the leaves on the dying autumn trees.

The park was Matheson Park, a small patch of grass and water and trees located in the east of town. It was fairly small when compared to the other, bigger city parks of Jump City, but that made it none the less beautiful; the inconspicuousness of it gave it the feel of an oasis in the middle of a metropolitan desert.

The observer who sat on the park bench and admired the day was normal looking enough, appearing to be eighteen or so (one would have been surprised to know that he was in fact two years younger). He wore a pair of faded blue jeans and a plain white tee shirt, with a matching denim vest to go over it, as well as a pair of worn leather shoes; his hair was dirty-blonde and shoulder length, and was tied into a short pony-tail in the back. He was handsome in a plain sort of way; he carried about him an air of age that was fairly uncommon for most boys his age. His face was soft, his eyes contemplative, almost sad. If one were to descried this young man based off of his immediate appearance, they might attribute him to being a seventies Rock n' Roll sort, the kind of guy who'd seen a lot, done even more, regretted more than that, and might've sang a song about it from time to time, and that would've been accurate (aside from the singing, which was fairly impossible).

He sat there on the bench that day for no other reason than to watch. To watch people, to watch the animals, to watch the park itself, he didn't exactly care. He was the sort of guy who found it easy to see the good aspects in life (although that didn't make it any harder for the bad stuff to seep through), and he often took time out of his day, when he wasn't working that is, to admire them. And he _was_ a musician (a guitar player) who did like to compose a song when the urge crept in to his heart. So that day he thought he might take a bit to watch the park, maybe feed a few ducks, and get the groove of a song in mind (although he wouldn't sing it, that would've been impossible).

His good luck was that it was a beautiful day, the kind that was always described in books and postcards and the like. The multitude of trees that inhabited Matheson Park were in the midst of their autumn cycles, and their leaves seemed to burst with their oranges and yellows and reds. It was breezy that morning, enough to create a hypnotizing rippling effect with the leaves on the trees, but not quite enough to make it uncomfortably chilly (Jump City autumns were generally fairly warm). The people that strolled the park were of the typical sort; he spied a group or two that seemed to be the typical "Happy American Family", that was to say a mother and a father, both looking rather content, walking arm in waist behind their child or children, who invariably enough looked bored to tears. There was also a great gaggle of what could only be assumed to be young couples who were taking advantage of the serene scenery to further envelope themselves in the throes of young love.

He himself was not particularly familiar with those experiences; his childhood had consisted of a gaggle of foster homes and one _real_ (if painfully short-lived) home. After that…well, he _did_ have a family, albeit one that wasn't quite the type to stroll through the parks, at least not often. So he made up for this by observing the others who did have a childhood, and a family. He would've been slightly surprised to know that he was living vicariously (as this was a term he most often associated with Beauty-Pageant Mothers and Tool); he might have even laughed had he been able too. Since that was not the case, he would've contented himself with a warm if slightly sad smile, the kind that he wore this day on the bench.

He was not entirely aware of the woman's presence until she took her seat next to him, a rare thing to be sure considering his line of work.

"Hello," she said, with a smile. He smiled and nodded as well, regarding her looks. She was an older woman, perhaps forty, although she carried the air of a much more matured person. She seemed frail, although not exactly small, in the beige coat and pants that she wore. Her smile was warm, as was the rest of her demeanor, and like he she also seemed to smile with an airy hint of sadness, as if tired or weary. She sat there, like he, observing the park for a minute or two. "It's nice, isn't it?" she asked, "The way it all looks this time of year, especially here, at Matheson. It may not be the biggest, but it sure beats the others in regards to beauty." He nodded. She turned to him and smiled again. "My name is Ruth, by the way." The boy looked about, as if he'd lost something, and grabbed a small blue bag from the ground on the side of him; he rummaged in it for a moment as Ruth waited patiently, and at last pulled out a notepad and pencil, which had been finely sharpened. He scribbled in it for a second, and handed it to the older woman.

_My name is Jericho_, it read, in a neat and elegant print. She regarded this with interest and slight confusion and, seeing this, Jericho politely grabbed his pad and etched in it some more. He handed it back to her and she read it again. I'm mute. Ruth nodded.

"Ah," she said, "I apologize, I didn't realize…" Jericho shook his head with a smile and shrugged. '_It happens all the time'._ "Well," Ruth said, "Being the case I suppose you wouldn't mind a little one-sided conversation?" Jericho smiled and waved his hand, as if to say "Go on", and Ruth smiled as well, and spoke.

"As I was saying, Matheson may not be the biggest park in Jump City, but it's certainly one of the most beautiful. My husband, Rick, used to take me here to observe the colors of the leaves. He died a while ago. But that doesn't stop me from coming here to admire nature's beauty. Ruth turned to Jericho, and smiled that sad smile again. "I take it that's why you're here?" she asked. Jericho nodded and rummaged through his pack again. This time he brought out a fairly disorganized bundle of papers covered with what seemed to be musical notes. She took these and observed them.

"A musician?" Jericho nodded again, and Ruth did as well. "I took you to be as such, it was your getup more than anything, but I thought it might be rude to ask." She smiled apologetically. Jericho only smiled and shook his head more, waving his hands to say "No problem."

"Yes," Ruth continued, "I suppose such a view could be inspiring to an artists like you. Rick was no musician, but he _did_ like to write poetry, he even published some in the local magazines every now and then. Mostly they were about life and love, but every now and again he'd write a gaggle of lines concerned with nothing but the Autumn leaves. He said they made him sad and jovial and anticipated all at the same time." Jericho raised an eyebrow at this last word. _Anticipation? _Ruth understood.

"Yes," she said, "Rick always loved to talk about he was actually anxious for "his time to come". He was a religious man, born and raised, and said he couldn't wait for the day he could "shake God's hand", or so he liked to put it." At this Jericho smiled and pulled a chain out from his shirt; at the end of it dangled a silver crucifix. Ruth chuckled. "You too, huh? I was never too religious myself; I was always content to believe in a God and a Heaven and let that be the end of it. But Rick would've liked that a lot." Jericho nodded in understanding and thanks. They sat there for a moment or two, in silence.

"Ah," Ruth said, at last, "I might actually have one of Rick's old poems with me. I usually don't read them too much, it reminds me of him too much, but I always keep some of them with me, just in case his words could inspire some one else.". She rummaged in her own purse this time and pulled out a small, wrinkled, and old piece of notebook paper, and motioned to Jericho's pile of music; "And by the way you write I think you might appreciate it even more than I might." Jericho took the poem carefully, not wanting to damage what the woman so obviously prized. There was no title only the name Rick Burgess scribbled on the top, and below it a sketched maple leaf, colored in hazel. The poem read:

_There's so many of them;_

_an ocean of hazel and orange and red__flowing like beautiful waves in the soft autumn breeze_

_And a thought strikes me:_

_They are all dying, every single one of them_

_(for not even the leaves can escape the vice of death)_

_and for a moment I'm filled with a melancholy sigh_

_But then another thought strikes me, clear as the last;_

_Standing beneath this ocean of death, t_

_hese veils of_

_Orange and Red and Hazel_

_I see that Death is itself_

_is beautiful_

Jericho read the poem slowly, re-reading the last two lines, which he thought were particularly impacting. He handed the paper back to Ruth, smiling contemplatively.

"Did you like it?" Ruth asked, although the look in her eyes said she already knew the answer to the question. Despite this, Jericho grabbed his notepad, write something, and handed it back to Ruth. She took it; inscribed on it were two things: One, a maple leaf that almost mirrored that which her late husband had drawn, and below it a word: _Beautiful_. Jericho saw that her eyes were watering, but only a little. "I very much appreciate this, Jericho." Jericho smiled.

A vibrating sound came from Jericho's front pocket. He jumped at first, startle, and reached in his pocket and pulled out what looked to be a small round phone, complete with the small key pad at the bottom, although this seemed to be comprised of letters instead of numbers. On the back of it was a large black **T**. He glanced at the screen that lay in the middle of it and punched a reply into the keypad with a startling swiftness. He then looked to Ruth apologetically. She smiled and handed him his notepad. "Don't worry about it," she said, "You company, however brief, has meant the world to me." Jericho smiled again. His phone-thing buzzed, more violently this timed, it seemed. Jericho smiled a final time, grabbed his bag, and rushed off.

Ruth sat there on her own for a while, reflecting on her meeting. She'd though she'd recognized the young man, and the moment he pulled out his communicator, she knew who he was. He was a member of that superhero group, the Teen Titans. She often saw reports of them on the local news, usually followed by diatribes on their unequalled heroism and the gift they were to the world. She had always though little of them, perhaps because of her husband. Rick had died in a fire at the office where he worked. The Titans had come, so she was told, but they hadn't been able to save everybody. One of those that could not be saved was her husband. She had, in fact, carried a great deal of anger towards them in the wake of Rick's death, but that had eventually died down to a simmer. But every time she heard their names, she'd always felt pang in her heart.

But Jericho had been a good boy, the kind that actually seen the world for the beauty that it had, rather than the bustling masses who so often thought it to be a distraction. Jericho, had, in fact, reminded her of Rick.

There was a tree above the park bench, it's leaves bristling with hazels and reds and oranges. One of them detached from its twig, and floated gently to the ground, landing where the hero boy had previously sat. Ruth smiled. Maybe it was time to let even that simmer of anger go. As she stood from the bench and started her walk home, she was still smiling.


End file.
